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Description
I only saw what it was to be homesick, but hadn't known it. After the last of the gold had been dusted from the mines and scraped from the rivers and the American dreamers purged their claims for every last nugget, the last thing they wanted to do was stay put. Towns that had sprung up overnight cleared out almost as fast as the gold, the people returning home or pursuing better. Even the completely destitute seemed to find their way out after a while, whether through dumb luck or one winter too harsh. All too often I heard my home referred to as "godforsaken wasteland" and "a little better than hell on Earth", and I started to believe that I had to get away too.

I couldn't, of course. I had to stay. Where else could I go? Seattle? Chicago? Chase the next big gold rush in Alaska? No, I would have to stay here. I had a responsibility to Confederation now. The excitement of the gold rush was gone, and I was alone. The lingering feeling that anywhere was better than here nagged at the back of my mind, but almost ironically there was too much to do to keep living here to dwell on it. I was suddenly held in the eyes of the world for a few years, and released just as fast. Everyone had gone home and there was nothing left in the ground to keep their roots in.

A man came by from the States and rode a dogsled back down again, suicidal as it was. He said one day the path he took would be a great highway. I laughed. Who would come back here now that everything precious had been ripped from the ground? He said the highway was meant to connect the United States all the way through, but it would benefit Canada as well. This time, "Canada" included me. I was almost breathless with excitement; a highway would mean contact. A highway would make it easier to get supplies. If nothing else, a highway was a road out.

Canada, my saviour, peered down his nose over his glasses at me as if trying to connect my face with a name. Instead, he avoided addressing me directly and stared coolly toward his brother. America was red-faced and exhalations of excitement were suspended around his face in the frozen air as he surveyed the swampland around him.

"Don't you see it? A highway all down the west back to civilization. You've gotta understand that this is gonna be yours too, but I need your support!"
"You were always too excitable about fast-money schemes like this," Canada's eyes were ice. "You're already booming, why waste time out here?"
"Aw, come on, don't be like that! I told you, there will be benefits for you too-"
"Who will it benefit, Al?! A few thousand people in the Yukon, that's it. It's not worth the cost."

There it was. Even after joining Confederation, I was little more than a region. A territory. That little determinative "the" was the only thing distinguishing me from the rest of the wilderness. It meant that I was barely deserving of any specific attention from my own country. Without gold, I was just uninhabitable frozen swamp with only a handful of people crazy enough to live in it. I was nothing. My people would disperse like the Stampeders and I would fade away, Canada not so much as batting an eye. There it was, my triumphant final escape.

The next years were even worse as the prairies blew away and the rest of the world became like Dawson City and Dyea. I only had a short time to bitterly smirk at Confederation as it was drying up, but then there was war. Pearl Harbour made everyone scramble; all eyes were back in the west again. Suddenly Americans poured back in, like old times. This time they were military folk, but they had come to build the highway. That forgotten dream seemed implausible then and ten times that now, but it was happening. The United States had taken the cost and would give control to Canada after the war was over. Soon part of this road would be mine.
The construction itself was messy. Parts of the road were little more than logs and pontoon bridges. Several vehicles became mired in the mud and had to be pulled out again. I had little doubt that I had surpassed wasteland status in the minds of the Americans, but soon I perhaps might not be. What must it be like to be civilized, I wondered. I looked out across the expanse of construction towards the west and remembered how lawless and degenerate Alaska had been compared to me. Why was it suddenly so important to protect such a hideous place?
At that moment a bulldozer knocked down a sign, and a young soldier was sent to get it fixed. I watched him for a while as he worked. Just when I thought he had finished, he set to work on a second sign. Curious, I approached. The man smiled sadly at me as he stood back from his handiwork. The sign read "DANVILLE, ILLINOIS".
"My hometown," the man said, pointing to the numbers below the name. "This is how far it is from here."
"Must be nice, your hometown." I watched his fellows grapple with their equipment in the mud. "Much nicer than here, I'd wager."
"I suppose so," he said. I wasn't sure what else I was expecting. "But then again, everyone's home is probably the nicest, right? Ever been far from home?"
"No." I stared at my feet, sinking into the mud.
"Ha ha, well, for some people being away from home is just about hell on Earth, I guess. Having a little reminder just seems to make it a little more bearable."
"I see." Actually, I thought I almost did.
The signs grew. They reached up to the tops of the trees and down to the ground. They pointed every which way, unfurling from their posts like branches. License plates and colourful welcome signs from all over the world blossomed between the foliage. Before I left the Sign Post Forest, I placed a sign for Dawson City, another for Whitehorse, and finally one marked "WATSON LAKE: 0 KM". The American soldier was right, I decided. Sometimes a reminder of home was all you needed.

Description
I only saw what it was to be homesick, but hadn't known it. After the last of the gold had been dusted from the mines and scraped from the rivers and the American dreamers purged their claims for every last nugget, the last thing they wanted to do was stay put. Towns that had sprung up overnight cleared out almost as fast as the gold, the people returning home or pursuing better. Even the completely destitute seemed to find their way out after a while, whether through dumb luck or one winter too harsh. All too often I heard my home referred to as "godforsaken wasteland" and "a little better than hell on Earth", and I started to believe that I had to get away too.

I couldn't, of course. I had to stay. Where else could I go? Seattle? Chicago? Chase the next big gold rush in Alaska? No, I would have to stay here. I had a responsibility to Confederation now. The excitement of the gold rush was gone, and I was alone. The lingering feeling that anywhere was better than here nagged at the back of my mind, but almost ironically there was too much to do to keep living here to dwell on it. I was suddenly held in the eyes of the world for a few years, and released just as fast. Everyone had gone home and there was nothing left in the ground to keep their roots in.

A man came by from the States and rode a dogsled back down again, suicidal as it was. He said one day the path he took would be a great highway. I laughed. Who would come back here now that everything precious had been ripped from the ground? He said the highway was meant to connect the United States all the way through, but it would benefit Canada as well. This time, "Canada" included me. I was almost breathless with excitement; a highway would mean contact. A highway would make it easier to get supplies. If nothing else, a highway was a road out.

Canada, my saviour, peered down his nose over his glasses at me as if trying to connect my face with a name. Instead, he avoided addressing me directly and stared coolly toward his brother. America was red-faced and exhalations of excitement were suspended around his face in the frozen air as he surveyed the swampland around him.

"Don't you see it? A highway all down the west back to civilization. You've gotta understand that this is gonna be yours too, but I need your support!"
"You were always too excitable about fast-money schemes like this," Canada's eyes were ice. "You're already booming, why waste time out here?"
"Aw, come on, don't be like that! I told you, there will be benefits for you too-"
"Who will it benefit, Al?! A few thousand people in the Yukon, that's it. It's not worth the cost."

There it was. Even after joining Confederation, I was little more than a region. A territory. That little determinative "the" was the only thing distinguishing me from the rest of the wilderness. It meant that I was barely deserving of any specific attention from my own country. Without gold, I was just uninhabitable frozen swamp with only a handful of people crazy enough to live in it. I was nothing. My people would disperse like the Stampeders and I would fade away, Canada not so much as batting an eye. There it was, my triumphant final escape.

The next years were even worse as the prairies blew away and the rest of the world became like Dawson City and Dyea. I only had a short time to bitterly smirk at Confederation as it was drying up, but then there was war. Pearl Harbour made everyone scramble; all eyes were back in the west again. Suddenly Americans poured back in, like old times. This time they were military folk, but they had come to build the highway. That forgotten dream seemed implausible then and ten times that now, but it was happening. The United States had taken the cost and would give control to Canada after the war was over. Soon part of this road would be mine.
The construction itself was messy. Parts of the road were little more than logs and pontoon bridges. Several vehicles became mired in the mud and had to be pulled out again. I had little doubt that I had surpassed wasteland status in the minds of the Americans, but soon I perhaps might not be. What must it be like to be civilized, I wondered. I looked out across the expanse of construction towards the west and remembered how lawless and degenerate Alaska had been compared to me. Why was it suddenly so important to protect such a hideous place?
At that moment a bulldozer knocked down a sign, and a young soldier was sent to get it fixed. I watched him for a while as he worked. Just when I thought he had finished, he set to work on a second sign. Curious, I approached. The man smiled sadly at me as he stood back from his handiwork. The sign read "DANVILLE, ILLINOIS".
"My hometown," the man said, pointing to the numbers below the name. "This is how far it is from here."
"Must be nice, your hometown." I watched his fellows grapple with their equipment in the mud. "Much nicer than here, I'd wager."
"I suppose so," he said. I wasn't sure what else I was expecting. "But then again, everyone's home is probably the nicest, right? Ever been far from home?"
"No." I stared at my feet, sinking into the mud.
"Ha ha, well, for some people being away from home is just about hell on Earth, I guess. Having a little reminder just seems to make it a little more bearable."
"I see." Actually, I thought I almost did.
The signs grew. They reached up to the tops of the trees and down to the ground. They pointed every which way, unfurling from their posts like branches. License plates and colourful welcome signs from all over the world blossomed between the foliage. Before I left the Sign Post Forest, I placed a sign for Dawson City, another for Whitehorse, and finally one marked "WATSON LAKE: 0 KM". The American soldier was right, I decided. Sometimes a reminder of home was all you needed.